Sammy-Centric
by Welcome to my House of Mirrors
Summary: Basically, Sam gets abused by the author. A lot. READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE INSIDE!
1. Sam gets stabbed by a ghost fic

**Okay, I've decided to try something new. I've posted all of my half-finished Supernatural stories in the hopes that you guys will pick the ones you like most, and then, by popular vote, those will be the ones I prioritise. PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT IF I DON'T HAVE FEEDBACK WITHIN ONE WEEK, I WILL TAKE THIS DOWN. **

**Mostly the warnings are as listed: self-harm, suicide. That's just what I write. There's no smut or anything, and I'll try to have a basic description of each story in the titles. Some of them are really old, so they might not be quite informationally sound. REMEMBER: THESE ARE WORKS IN PROGRESS. THERE WILL BE PARTS MISSING AND MOST LIKELY NO ENDINGS. **

**Also; REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW. I'M BEGGING YOU.**

**Thanks, and happy reading! =D**

* * *

><p>It was <em>supposed <em>to be a simple salt and burn.

Sam snorted. _Simple salt and burn my ass_, he thought. Then again, were salt and burns ever really _simple_?

The youngest Winchester was beginning to believe that hunting was never going to be simple; there were far too many things that could go wrong.

Looking down, Sam brushed at the side of Dean's face gently. It was simultaneously wet and crusty with blood, both fresh and drying, and at this point Sam wasn't sure which was Dean's and which was his. He supposed that the fresh blood would be his, since he was fairly certain that he was the only one still bleeding.

Yes, far, far too many things could go wrong in hunting, like your brother being thrown into a wall and you being stabbed and both of you ending up stuck in some dusty attic with a ghost prowling the house, one of you unconscious and the other one bleeding out.

Sam winced as he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position and only managed to jar his wound and blur his vision, and then he sighed. Dean was going to be pissed when he woke up with a concussion and a dead little brother.

"Sorry, Dean," he mumbled, smearing the blood around the older man's face instead of wiping it away. He supposed there was too much on his hand to really get the crimson liquid off effectively.

White and black spots danced across Sam's vision; he knew that soon unconsciousness would come to take him too. He imagined what Dean would say, had he been fully—or even remotely—alert.

_Stay awake, Sammy. Don't you dare close your eyes on me, you hear? Fight! Dammit, Sam, _fight!

"S'rry, D'n," Sam breathed, his hand falling from his big brother's hair to rest limply on the ground beside him.

_Four hours earlier..._

"Dude, slow down!" Sam nearly shouted, bracing himself against the dashboard and ignoring the fact that if they _were _to crash he would most likely break both his arms. "The hunt's not going anywhere!"

Dean smirked at his younger brother. "Just savin' time, Sammy, just savin' time," he replied loudly. He turned up the music before resting one arm out of the open window and singing AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" as the hand on the Impala's speedometer continued to inch past 100.

They were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, and the road twisted and turned so much that Sam was afraid that they were going to pitch right off of it. With the speed Dean was driving, he would have been worried about tipping off the road even if it wasn't curvier than the older Winchester's taste in women.

Laughing, Dean turned the music down and finally began to slow. "Chill out, Sam. Besides Dad, I'm the best driver you know. You really think I'd get us into a wreck?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," Sam muttered, relaxing a little.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, if you won't believe me for any other reason, believe me for this one: Dad'd kill me."

Sam shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "Are we almost there?" he asked, redirecting his gaze to the window and the blurring countryside. "Why would anyone want to live out here? There's literally nothing for forty-five minutes."

"What can I say?" Dean responded. "The girl's crazy, even in the afterlife. And yes, we're there."

Even as Dean said the words they pulled up to a large, rather old-looking house.


	2. Sam having an episode with self-harm

Sam doesn't really know what he's doing as he fiddles with Dean's bowie knife in his hands. He's _supposed _to be sharpening; that's what Dean had said. _Nice and sharp, Sam. Dull knives get people killed. _But that particular idea had been seemingly abandoned a while ago, though Sam can't remember exactly when.

It's freaking hot in the motel room since the air conditioner broke last night, and Sam's taken his shirt off because he figures it'll be one less sweaty thing to wash in the long run. He wonders vaguely if Dean is hot at the bar he'd gone to, or if he's even still at the bar. Probably, Sam decides. Dean hasn't really had a mind for women lately. Not since the start of the apocalypse.

Sam whistles AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" absentmindedly under his breath as he slides the knife gently across his skin, not nearly hard enough to break it. He traces the veins in his hands, his wrists, at the crease of his elbow. He doesn't really know what he's doing.

The next time he draws the blade over the pattern of blue he applies a little bit of pressure, just enough to raise the skin a bit and turn it pink. He pauses when this is finished. The pattern is fascinating. It actually looks kind of cool.

With this in mind Sam presses a little harder, and this time thin lines of red mark the knife's trail as Sam traces. It stings a little, but Sam doesn't mind. He's had worse. The next time he pulls the knife across his skin the red lines grow darker and deep ruby blood bubbles up in tiny beads along it. As the younger Winchester stops to examine his handy work, he notes that blood is actually sort of a pretty colour. He wonders if this will scar. He kind of hopes it does, because that would be wicked.

Sam's just finished the fourth trail on his hand and is tracing over the lines on his wrist when the door bangs open and Dean calls, "I'm back, Sam," and Sam curses as his hand slips. Blood is spurting from the wound now—seriously spurting, like the vein is a hose and it's just torn open while the water is on full-force—and okay, that sort of really hurt.

Within a second the knife is halfway across the room and Dean is shouting, "What the hell, Sam!" even as he looks as though he's just been punched. His hand closes tightly over the wound, attempting to stem the blood flow.

"Sorry," Sam says, breathlessly because he's feeling a little lightheaded. "I didn't mean to—you startled me."

"What the fuck were you _doing_?" Dean yells. He takes in the track made by the tip of the knife. "What the _fuck _were you _thinking_?"

"I—" Sam doesn't know. He watches somewhat drowsily as Dean pulls off his shirt and wraps his bleeding wrist before replacing the pressure.

"Were you _trying _to kill yourself?" Dean demands. He sounds angry. Furious even. But Sam recognises the anger for what it truly is.

Dean is _scared_.

"No," Sam assures, feeling bad for scaring his brother. Though he's not quite sure why Dean would care if he killed himself.

Dean's gotten the first aid kit and is sterilizing a needle. He's silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he says, "I don't believe you."

"Sorry," Sam apologises automatically. Dean's hands shake as they begin to stitch up the wound.

"Sammy," Dean starts, and his voice is a little strained now, no longer angry. He takes a breath. "Tell me. Just—were you trying to kill yourself? I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," Sam states.

Dean pauses. "Were you—are you angry? Scared? Depressed? Is this a frickin' cry for help? Do you want my attention, because let me tell you Sam, you have my attention."

"It was an accident." Sam looks up as Dean looks up, holds his brother's incredulous gaze.

"An accident."

"Yeah."

"And you were just—what? Carving yourself up for the sport of it?"

"It was," Sam squirms as Dean pours antiseptic over the gash, "pretty."

At this Dean freezes. He opens his mouth, makes a choked noise, closes it, swallows, and then tries again. "Pretty," he repeats, and it sounds like he just got over being strangled. "It was pretty. Fucking _pretty_." He starts laughing then. It's a hysterical sort of noise. "I go to get some food and come back to find my baby brother slicing his veins open because it's _fucking pretty._ Jesus Christ, Sam."


	3. potential angsty teen-chesters

"Why do you always have to pick fights with him, Sam?" Dean asks as he follows his younger brother into their bedroom, sounding exasperated.

"I don't _pick fights_ with him," Sam retorts angrily, shoving the papers on his bed heedlessly into his book bag. "I don't want to move. I have friends here and good grades and no one picks on me. And I realise that you're unfamiliar with the concept of dad's anger being directed at you, but when he says those things to me it _hurts_."

"So you decide to lash out at him?" Dean sits on his own bed.

Sam slams his history textbook closed. "It's not a conscious decision, Dean, it just happens. They're called behavioural instincts. Where I learned that one is a real mystery, isn't it? There's no way it could have been from you or dad." The younger boy shakes his head bitterly and shoves his backpack off of the mattress before sitting, his back to his brother.

Dean sighs. "Sam—"

"Don't," Sam mutters. He passes a hand down his face. "Just leave me alone." He hears Dean sigh once more before getting up. The older brother hesitates briefly at the door and then leaves, thinking that it's probably best to let Sam cool down.

The youngest Winchester scowls. Dean doesn't understand any better than their father does. It's not even really about the hunting; it's about feeling safe and secure and _loved_, it's about carrying a burden way too heavy for fourteen-year-old shoulders and not making any real friends because he knows too much to ever fit in and not having anyone to talk to because talking just isn't _the Winchester Way_. The thought makes Sam chuckle.

"Loneliness is a bitch, huh?" he murmurs to the empty room, smearing the tears off of his face with his sleeve.


	4. amusing Sam-in-Wonderland

"What the hell you starin' at, boy?" the caterpillar-thing asks him, and it sounds so much like Bobby that for a minute Sam can do nothing but gape. "Well?" the Bobby-caterpillar snaps impatiently when Sam just stands there with his mouth hanging open. "You just gonna stand there all day like an idjit?"

Sam closes his mouth and takes a half-step back, swallowing. "Uh, I was wondering if you knew what the date was?" He frowns slightly, not having intended to make his statement into a question.

"Well," the Bobby-caterpillar replies almost thoughtfully. Sam wonders at the sudden mood swing. "If today was tomorrow and it was the thirteenth, then yesterday would be the twelfth."

Sam blinks. "Um, okay," he says, a little uncertainly. Because seriously, _what the fuck?_ "That's great. But I need to know what the date is _today_."

"Well, if today was tomorrow and it was the thir—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know about the thing with the thirteenth, okay?" Sam cuts him off, losing his patience. "Just—what the hell is the date _today_? Right now. I want to know the date _now_, not the date tomorrow or if today was yesterday or whatever the fuck, okay? Can you please just tell me the date?"

The caterpillar thing surveys him quietly, his expression unreadable, and Sam shifts uncomfortably because it once again reminds him way too freakin' much of Bobby. But he can't think on that fact too much before a pair of bottles that smell distinctly of alcohol are being held in front of his face, making him even more confused. He looks up at the thing.

"Pick one," he tells Sam, waving the bottles a little with his weird spider-leg thingies.

"Huh?" Sam asks stupidly, bewildered. Some part of his mind is saying that it's probably not a good idea to take alcohol from some half-caterpillar, half-spider, insect-human hybrid that sounds like Bobby Singer whom he just met in the middle of the forest. It's the part that reminds him of Dean.

Bobby-caterpillar lets out a frustrated breath. "Dammit, boy, just _pick _one!"


	5. John is a jerk Sam is having anxiety

Watch me Tremble, Hear me Cry

"If you walk out that door, don't you _ever _come back."

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air. Dean's gaze flickers back and forth between his father and his brother, watching, waiting for something to happen. Anything. Sam feels it when Dean's gaze finally finds him and stays there.

Pushing back the hurt and the little voice in his head screaming _don'tgodon'tgodon'tgo _Sam squares his shoulders, grits his teeth, and begins walking towards the front door. He's just put his hand on the doorknob when the reality of the situation hits him like a brick wall and his steps falter. Stop. His breath quickens, his grip on the handle tightening minutely. He can feel the walls closing in on him and suddenly he can't move, can't walk out the door or away from it either, because in that moment he realises that it isn't his choice to go or to stay or to be happy. It was never his choice.

"Okay," he says, and it's barely more than a whisper. He drops his forehead to rest on the wood, lays his palm flat beneath and a little to the right of his chin. Feeling the coolness of the paint. Trying to ground himself because all of a sudden he's floating. "Okayokayokayokayokay—" Sam forces his mouth closed and straightens, turns jerkily and lets his bag slide off of his shoulder and hit the floor with a thump that resonates in the silence of the room.

He feels uncoordinated as he walks past his brother and father, ignoring Dean's pleaded, "Sammy," in favor of stumbling heavily up the stairs to his room. It almost feels as though the mental and emotional shackles John has on Sam's wrists and ankles are real, physical things weighing him down.

He closes the door behind him and all at once there isn't enough air in the room. He slides to the floor, struggling to pull a breath past the control that's suffocating him but he can't, he _can't_—

And then he can. He sits panting on the floor and pretends he doesn't hear Dean and their dad arguing, pretends he can't hear the door slam as John leaves. He pretends that this—staying here, giving up everything he had dreamed—is his choice even though it isn't.

It was never his choice.

The next day, when they're driving away from wherever they are (Sam can't remember anymore) to wherever they're going and the Impala is suddenly caving in on him, Sam asks their father politely to stop the car. When John says sharply. "What?" but makes no move to slow down, the politeness kind of slips away and it comes out more like _Stop the god damn car right the fuck now _and shock alone has the eldest Winchester to stepping on the brake.

"What the hell did you just say to me?" John growls as they slow, but Sam is out of the Impala and on the ground before the car stops moving, gasping on his hands and knees because all the oxygen in the whole world suddenly isn't enough.

Then Dean is next to him, asking, "What's wrong, Sam? What's wrong?" and their dad is standing behind them with his arms crossed and his expression stone-hard and expectant but Sam doesn't answer.

It happens twice after that.

John stops the minute Sam asks.

After a while, breathing is no longer important.


	6. mostly-finished post-purgatory angst

Sam thinks that maybe he can feel himself coming apart slowly, crumbling piece by piece from the inside out, starting with his heart and his lungs.

He leaves the bathroom door unlocked, because Dean is gone anyway and besides, he honestly doesn't care if his brother (or anyone else, really) walks in one him now. It doesn't matter.

He stands with both hands braced against the sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and the buttons undone, his bangs hanging limply in front of his face. It's hot in the motel room, hotter than it is outside which is almost strange, and sweat trickles along his hairline and down the back of his neck and the feeling makes him shudder. He doesn't look at the mirror.

Instead he looks at the exposed skin of his forearms, at the straight, neat lines of purplish scars that are still dark after months because for all it's been through and all it's fought against and won, his body has a crap healing mechanism when it comes to the little stuff like cuts made from his own knife by his own practised hand. Sam hasn't cut himself since Cas rid him of the hallucinations. He's had no need.

And he hasn't told Dean, because he knows that if he does his older brother will flip shit or somehow come to the conclusion that the whole fucked up situation is his fault.

_ Just one more thing you lied to him about, _a little voice in the back of his head sneers.

Sam looks up at his reflection then and flinches. The bruises are too prominent, the skin too pale and the angles too sharp. And the eyes. His eyes that are filled with secrets and betrayals and blame. It's his fault. All of it. Mom, Dad, Jess, Bobby, Ellen, Jo. All dead because of him, And Dean. God. How many times has Sam failed him? _Well let's go through some of Sammy's greatest hits. Drinkin' demon blood, check. Being in cahoots with Ruby. Not telling me that you _lost your soul, _or how about runnin' around with Samuel for a year, letting me think you were dead while you were doing all kind of crazy. Those aren't _mistakes,_ Sam. Those are choices!_

Sam looks at his reflection then, and he hates it.

By the time Dean comes back, it's kind of late-ish (ten thirty) and Sam feels like he's managed at least some pretence of normal. Dean tosses him a sandwich that doesn't exactly look appetising with all its limp lettuce and squashy, runny tomato before stating, "Found a new hunt—down in Illinois."

"Oh yeah?" Sam says, picking at his sandwich in a way that he hopes makes him look like he's eating it.

"Uh huh." Dean takes a bite of his own cheeseburger, studying his younger brother. "Sounds like the typical somebody-pissed-me-off-so-I'm-gonna-go-on-a-killing-spree kind of poltergeist. You up for it?"

"Sure," Sam agrees, "let's do it." And then he's throwing the picked-apart sandwich away and settling back on his bed with the remote in hand before Dean can ask him something stupid like _Are you sure? _and Sam's reminded once again that his older brother no longer trusts him.

Dean's gaze follows Sam onto the bed as the older man swallows, watches him flip aimlessly through the channels in a way that makes the younger man want to squirm. Dean doesn't take another bite.

"Can I help you?" Sam snaps when it becomes too much, returning Dean's gaze with a glare. Dean shrugs, and while he continues to eat his burger, he doesn't look away.

"You should eat more," he says finally when the sandwich is almost gone. "You've lost weight."

"Mm," Sam replies. He turns his head because he knows that Dean is right, knows that he's lost weight and should eat more, but he can't do it.

So he just continues flipping through the channels even though there's nothing on that could catch his interest now, and pretends not to feel the weight of Dean's gaze.

Sam's up at five the next morning even though he never really slept, showering (carefully avoiding the mirror) and going out to grab Dean some breakfast and himself some coffee, and by the time he gets back it's six thirty and Dean is just wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Where'd you go?" he asks drowsily even though he already knows the answer. "Breakfast," Sam replies even though he knows that Dean already knew.

"You get yourself anything?" Dean questions, sitting up. Sam ignores him. He sighs. "Sam—"

"So where're we headed?" Sam interrupts, bringing his coffee to his lips and looking pointedly not at Dean.

The older Winchester huffs out a frustrated breath but drops it because he knows that he won't get through to Sam now. "St. Clair, Illinois."

Sam nods. "What's going on?"

"People keep bleedin' out," says Dean. "Through their ears."

"Oh." Sam blinks in surprise and then laughs, shaking his head. "That's, ah, unfortunate."

"Tell me about it," Dean grumbles as he climbs out of bed and makes his way towards the bathroom. The minute the door closes, Sam braces himself against the top of the TV and sucks in a breath, trying not to freak out because his lungs are suddenly too small to hold any of the oxygen. He furiously wills himself to calm down, even goes so far as to mutter, "_Get your shit together, Sam_," under his breath but it does no good, and he closes his eyes because suddenly he's really, really scared that the reflection in the screen in front of him will send him into a full-blown panic attack and Dean will come out and see him and—

"Sam?" Dean's voice is alarmed.

Shit, shit, shit. Sam attempts to take another breath, except there's something in his throat that's blocking the air. Goddammit.

"Sam?" Dean repeats, pulling Sam up and around to face him. "What happened?" His eyes search his brother's face and then the rest of his body, checking for injury automatically because that's what he _does._ It's what he's been trained to do all his life and he isn't going to stop now just because Sam's such a fuck-up.

A choked sound slips past Sam's lips and Dean recognises the problem immediately. "Did you eat anything?" he asks sharply, pulling his little brother to sit on the bed. Sam shakes his head and then leans forward to rest it on his knees. It helps a little.

"Breathe. Breathe, Sammy," Dean says, rubbing soft circles into his back. Sam squeezes his watering eyes shut, turns so that he cheek is resting on his knees now, and then pulls in a feeble breath and holds it.

It's not a good idea.

Because suddenly the alarm in Dean's voice has escalated to panic as he yells, "Sam! Sam, _breathe_, dammit!" and jerks him upright.

Sam lets out the breath he's been holding and suddenly he can breathe just fine, and Dean's wild expression is quickly morphing into a pissed off one.

It's not a good idea, but it works.

"Don't you _ever _pull something like that again, you understand me?" Dean growls, standing up.

"Sorry," Sam apologizes weakly. He has the sudden urge to curl up into a ball and have the bed swallow him whole. Dean doesn't reply, doesn't even look at his younger brother as he grabs his duffle and stalks out of the motel, slamming the door behind him, and Sam bites his lip because he's screwed up again.

Dean wills his heartbeat to slow as he sits in the Impala waiting for Sam.

"Stupid kid," he mutters, because his little brother can scare the shit out of him like no one else can and he seems to do it on a regular basis. Dean wonders if he has a schedule. _Let's see, how can I give big brother an aneurysm today?_

The older Winchester snorts and immediately feels bad because he knows that Sam doesn't do it on purpose no matter how much it may seem like he does. He shouldn't take out his emotions on the guy, but it's like anything Sam does these days is enough to set Dean off. He feels antsy, wired—like a walking time bomb seconds away from blowing. Anger burns hot and acidic in his veins no matter what mood he's in. It's not healthy. For either of them.

After a few minutes Sam ducks into the seat beside him, keeping his head low and avoiding Dean's gaze, and Dean feels a pang of guilt for having yelled at him.

"So, uh." He clears his throat. "What was that?"

Sam glances at him quickly and shrugs. "Just couldn't get enough air, y'know? It happens."

"And holding your breath helps, huh?" The words come out more accusatory than Dean means them to. Sam's hand curls into a fist on his knee.

"'parently." The younger man shifts so that he's more angled towards the window and pulls his arms to wrap around his stomach almost defensively. "Were you planning on going soon?"

Only then does Dean realise that he hasn't even started the car yet. He turns it on and pulls out of the parking lot, getting on to the main road before heading north; out of Arkansas.

It's quiet for a long time. The countryside passes in a blur, and in what seems like a matter of minutes they're stopping for gas a little ways into Missouri.

"You want anything?" Dean asks before he gets out of the car, turning to Sam with one hand on the door handle, ready to open it. Sam, as predicted, shakes his head, still staring broodingly out the window. Dean sighs and lets his annoyance show through the slamming of the car door.

He can't help but feel some resentment towards his younger sibling. After all they'd been through he hadn't cared enough to look for his big brother, or even had the decency to because of everything Dean had done for him. The least Sam can do now is take care of himself so that Dean doesn't have to do that as well.

_But that's just how it is with him, isn't it? _Dean thinks to himself bitterly as he walks into the convenient store. _He's always gotta have something._

A familiar pang of guilt jolts through the older Winchester and he groans and rests his head on the wall that's near the candy aisle. It's not like that. He _knows _it isn't. Sam is frustrating and confusing and sometimes stupid, but he isn't selfish.

Dean just has to keep reminding himself that.

Sam worries his lower lip between his teeth while he contemplates the current situation. Dean is angry with him again and he doesn't know how to fix it, could try to say sorry but his older brother's heard it so many times by now that he's sick of it, has told Sam so himself. He settles for not saying anything as Dean exits the gas station-store with a few small bags of candy in his hands. The older Winchester tosses Sam some Swedish fish before he climbs back into the car.

"Thanks," Sam says softly. Dean just nods.

He puts the candy in his lap and returns his gaze to the window. It's cloudy and cool out, mid-October, and with enough luck and Dean's speed habits they'll make it to St. Clair before midnight.

Sam rests his head against the cool glass, letting out a soft sigh. The clouds overhead swirl grey and white across the sky and the patterns they create mix and change, dancing in a way that makes Sam think of a play he once went to see when he was still in high school. He smiles sadly at the memory. Things were so simple back then. His smile fades and he closes his eyes, pressing his lips together. Why can't things be that simple now?

_Maybe they could be, if you hadn't screwed things up so badly_, he thinks to himself.

"—am? Sam! Dude, are you hearing me?"

"Huh?" Sam startles, jerking away from the window as his eyes open to look at Dean, who's glancing between him and the road, his mouth pulled into a frown and that little crease that he always gets when he's uneasy between his eyes. The older Winchester's hand is poised in a way that makes Sam think he might have been snapping in an attempt to get his attention.

"I said your name, like, ten times, Sam," Dean remarks, still giving his little brother side-glances. "You feelin' okay?"

"Fine," Sam assures quickly. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

The look that Dean gives him in response to this says that he doesn't buy it, even though from Sam's perspective it isn't really a lie.

The rest of the drive is fairly uneventful. Sam pays more attention to his brother so that if Dean wants his attention again he'll get it immediately, but Dean doesn't really try to speak to Sam that much, and so mostly Sam is left to his own thoughts. They stop for lunch and then dinner at generic diners, the kind they always go to, both of which Sam eats half of to placate his brother who watches him closely throughout the meal.

They do, as predicted, make it to their destination before midnight. Eleven forty-three, to be exact. Dean showers and changes quickly before falling into bed with a quick, "Goodnight," leaving Sam on his own for the time being. It's probably a good thing too, because his lungs are trying to shrivel up again. Or maybe there just aren't enough pieces left for them to work properly anymore.

Sam strips out of his clothes, turns the shower on as high as it can go; he braces himself against the shower wall beneath the hot spray and tries to breathe as deeply as he can until hyperventilation is no longer an object of impending danger. Then he thinks about all the things he did while Dean was in purgatory and has to repeat the whole process all over again and this time it takes longer because fear is tightening vice-like in his chest. Now more than ever he wishes that he'd never even know what a demon was.

When Dean wakes up, Sam is sitting on his bed with the laptop on his lap and a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. A similar cup sits on the bedside table, waiting for him. He gets up and takes care of what he needs to in the bathroom, puts on his clothes for the day, and then sits on the edge of his own bed before taking the coffee from the nightstand.

"Find anything?" Dean asks, taking a drink from the cup.

"A little bit," Sam replies, squinting at the screen in concentration. "All over the age of twenty-one, all female, and all from the same work."

Dean hums and stands up. "Okay, then. We'll need to talk to some people, then, find out some more information."

Sam nods before following his older brother out to the Impala. "Where should we start?" Dean asks him.

"Let's try Natalie Pinder's house," Sam suggests. "Third one on the main road."

When they get there, Dean takes the lead. He knocks on the door while Sam stands behind him, and when a tired-looking elderly lady opens the door, Dean is the one to say, his voice thick with put-on grief, "Hi. I'm—I'm really sorry to bother you, but we're friends of Natalie's from work and, well... We just wanted to see if we could come in for a minute."

"Of course, dear," the woman says, her eyes going slightly dewy. "Come right in."

Once they're settled in on the couch across from the woman who introduced herself to be Natalie's mother, Sam asked, "So what did they say happened?"

"Oh, the doctors told us that it was a haemorrhage in her brain," Mrs Pinder replied, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "They said that it came on quite suddenly and was too extensive for her to have had any chance of surviving."

When Sam wakes up in the morning, he's terrified. It's unexplainable, irrational even but he can't make it go away. His hands shake as he takes a shower.

"You okay?" Dean asks when he comes out of the bathroom, looking at him strangely. He just swallows hard and nods before taking two painkillers that he doesn't really need. He hopes they'll calm his nerves. "Got a headache?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, and his voice breaks slightly. He clears his throat.

Dean surveys him carefully but says nothing about his younger brother's strange behaviour. Instead, he states, "I was thinking that we could stay here for another day or two, just to, you know, look around."

"Um, okay," Sam agrees even though he's confused because Dean never wants to stay in one place for longer than necessary. He puts his wallet and phone in his pocket. "Were you planning on heading out now?"

"Yeah, actually," Dean replies, and he's already got the motel door open.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Sam hopes Dean doesn't notice the way his voice trembles slightly. They get into the car and Dean shakes his head as he starts it up, the engine rumbling to life.

"Not really," he says, then hesitates, throwing Sam a careful look. "Truth be told, Sam, I think we need a break. _You _need a break. No offense, but you look like shit, man. When was the last time you've slept? Like, _really _slept? Or eaten?" And he looks at Sam like he expects him to answer.

Sam flinches because he honestly doesn't know when the last time he slept was, even if he vaguely remembers eating something about two days ago. Dean won't like either answer. He shrugs.

Dean sighs in frustration. "You need to take better care of yourself, Sam," he scolds and sounds really, genuinely worried and big-brotherly, and Sam almost smiles. Almost.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He means it, too—really fucking means it—but when they sit down at the diner for breakfast, dread is churning his stomach so violently he fears getting sick—something along the lines of projectile vomiting—even when there's nothing to expel.

"I really don't feel good," he breathes as he slumps against the booth and puts a hand over his eyes because his head is starting to hurt despite—or maybe because of—the unnecessary medication he had taken earlier.

"You comin' down with something?" Dean asks, and there's that honest-to-god concern again, something that Sam realises has been a constant undertone in his big brother's voice for a long time now. He kind of doesn't understand why it's still there.

"Dunno," Sam answers truthfully, because for all he knows he could be.

Before Dean can say anything else the waitress comes over and says, "Hello, my name is Casey and I'll be your server today. Can I start you guys off with something to drink?"

Sam ends up only ordering a coffee and some fruit and only consuming half of it. Dean frowns but says nothing.

They check out the town thoroughly, find some interesting places ("Seriously, what kind of town has a rec-centre that offers _finger-painting classes_?" "Obviously some people think they can learn something useful there." "Sam, it's _finger-painting_.") and all in all it's a good day, but when it's over Sam needs a drink and he needs it _now_.

"I'm gonna head over to the bar," Sam informs his brother. "You wanna come?"

"Nah, think I'll head back to the motel," Dean replies, studying Sam carefully. Again."You okay to walk back?"

Sam nods, and with a promise that he'll call Dean if he needs him, he leaves.

When Dean gets back to the motel he flops back onto the bed with a sigh and tries to figure out what might be going on with his younger brother. Sam's been acting off for days now, what with the way he locks himself in the bathroom and spaces out and sometimes breathes like all the oxygen in the world isn't enough. Dean lays there for a long, long time, but by the time he gets up to take a shower, he isn't any closer to helping Sam than he had been before.

When he emerges from the bathroom, it's late enough that Dean wonders why Sam isn't back yet. He sits back on the bed, alternating between watching the TV and the clock before he stands and starts to pace, his worry and anger growing with every step. Sam's been gone way too fucking long. The kid doesn't even like to drink.

By the time he resolves to call his brother—he kind of wonders why he didn't just do that in the first place—Sam stumbles through the door, cursing and unsteady and obviously very drunk.

"Where the hell have you—Jesus, Sam," Dean breathes, his eyes tracking slowly down Sam's body. "What happened?"

"Been a'th' bar," Sam slurs like it's obvious. And it kind of is, except he was at the bar for a really long time and Sam isn't usually one for drinking the night away. He struggles to remove his coat. "Got 'nto a lil' fight. S'okay."

"The hell it is," Dean snaps as he takes Sam's coat off for him and pushes his younger brother to sit on the bed. "You look like you went five rounds with Ali."

"Yeah, I hada lil'—" Sam hiccups, "—bit more tah drink 'n they did. There were four of 'em." He holds up five fingers, then on second glance puts one down. "Four."

Dean shakes his head, his brow creasing with worry and the hint of anger. "Why the fuck would you go up against four guys shitfaced? I thought I taught you better." He begins surveying the damage, wincing because the kid is a mess of bruises and Dean is pretty sure at least two of his fingers are broken.

Sam gives something similar to a snort. "Y'should see the other guys. There's s'm money—'n'my pocket. F'r you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asks even as he's fishing around in Sam's jacket pocket to pull out a thick wad of bills, and suddenly it all clicks into place. "You were hustling?"

"Yyy—ep," Sam confirms, falling back onto the hard motel mattress. "Playin' pool. Th'others _sucked_." The younger man laughs, throwing his hands up in front of him. "I won!"

"Yeah, I can see that, Sammy," Dean says, shaking his head and throwing the cash onto the nightstand. "Come on; let's get you cleaned up, huh? You're a mess."

"I c'n do'it," Sam protests, though he makes no move to get up.

"I'm sure you can," Dean mutters. He walks over to the side of the bed. "Let me see that hand of yours. I need to know what's broken."

"S'not broken," Sam says as he lifts his hand.

But it is, three of the fingers, so Dean goes to retrieve the first aid kit and then wraps the broken bones tightly with clean, white gauze and splints them with little, straight pieces of wood (kind of like popsicle sticks) and it's not ideal but it'll do.

"I think I laughed at 'em too much," Sam admits. His words aren't quite so slurred anymore. Dean is kind of surprised by how fast his body is burning off the alcohol.

"You're an idiot," Dean tells him, because he is.

"Maybe," Sam allows.

Dean slides Sam's shirt up, winces because the kid's chest is a nice canvas of black and blue and purple. He begins pressing gently around his ribs to see if anything is broken there, and then something catches his attention.

"Sam, what is this?" He drops his younger brother's shirt before flipping one of Sam's arms over, his eyes drawn to the neat line of straight, white scars that runs almost the length of his forearm.

"'S nothing," Sam says, pulling away from Dean. He sits up and pulls his shirt back over his head. "Just—Lucifer, you know. Pain made 'im go 'way."

"What the hell, Sam?"

Anger suddenly floods through Dean—the anger that always seems so close to the surface nowadays when it comes to his little brother—because no, he doesn't know, didn't know until tonight even though the hallucinations were how fucking long ago and dammit, he thought they were past this.

"So you just thought it would be a good idea to slice yourself up, huh?" he seethes. "And were you planning on _telling _me about this?"

Sam stands, faces away from him. "No."

Something inside of Dean breaks and he pulls Sam around by one of his shoulders before cracking his fist against his little brother's already abused jaw. He grabs Sam's collar and hauls him upright as he starts to go down.

"_No_?" he yells. "Fucking _no_? Is that all you have to say, you stupid, selfish bastard? I thought we were _done with this shit_!" He shakes Sam harshly as the younger man's head drops. "I thought we were done with the lying and the sneaking around and the keeping things from each other, because that got us so far last time! It got you strung out and running around with a fucking demon and starting the apocalypse and going to _Hell_, is that not enough for you, Sam? And I went to Purgatory!" He shakes Sam again. "I went to Purgatory, _and you didn't look for me_!"

"I looked!" Sam yells, suddenly sounding a lot more sober. He grabs Dean's own collar and brings his head up to look Dean in the eye and Dean is almost surprised to see the wetness streaming down his younger brother's face. "I looked _everywhere_. But you were gone and—and I couldn't _take it anymore _and I did something stupid, Dean I did something really, really stupid—" Sam drops his head again, gasping around the tears, his hair hanging limply in front of his face.

Just like that, all of Dean's anger is gone and something cold has lodged itself in his gut, and he's having flashbacks of demon blood and Bobby's house and the panic room, but it can't be because he hasn't seen Sam drink any of the stuff, hasn't once woken in the night to find his brother gone out God knows where, and there are no withdrawal symptoms. So he makes his voice as soft as he possibly can when he says, "What did you do, Sam?"

Sam just shakes his head and sobs brokenly. He's still got a tight grip on Dean's collar and Dean is fairly certain that if it weren't for that grip, he'd be on his knees, so he removes his own grasp on the younger man's shirt carefully before he takes Sam's face between his hands and brushes gently at the tears there with the pads of his thumbs.

"Sam, Sammy, look at me." Deans pleads with his brother just as soothingly as he holds him. "I need you to look at me, and I need you to tell me what you did, okay? Okay, Sammy? I promise I won't get mad. I just need you to tell me, alright? Okay? Just tell me."

Sam has just managed to look at Dean with anguished, desperate eyes and stammer out, "I—I—" when a knock at the door makes them both turn their heads. Sam goes a few shades paler, so Dean sits him back down on the bed before he can pass out and then goes to open up.

"Hello." The man on the other side of the door smiles, blinks, and his eyes are black the next time he opens them. "I'm here about a deal."

Slowly, very slowly, Dean's mind puts the horrifying pieces together, and when the puzzle is finished, he feels like he's just been punched in the gut with a brick. He turns to Sam. "You didn't," he says, _begs_, because it can't be true, there's no way it can be true, _Please, God, don't let it be true…_

Sam grips his hair with both hands and tries hard not to hyperventilate.

"Oh, but he did," the demon at the door intervenes. He smiles politely when Dean looks at him. "Sammy here sold his soul so that we would find you for him."

"But you didn't find me," Dean protests, and it's a miracle that his voice is steady. "_You_ weren't the ones that got me out of Purgatory."

"We didn't have to get you out," the demon counters, and this time his polite smile is more of a smirk. "There was nothing in the deal stating that we had to bring you _back _from wherever you were. All we had to do was find you, and then we got little Sammy's soul to play with for as long as you were in Purgatory—after you came back, of course. We knew you would. You Winchesters are like cockroaches."

Dean feels sick. "No. There has to—there has to be some other way."

"I'm afraid not," the demon sighs in mock sympathy. "Sam's soul belongs to us for a year now."

"But—you can't—" It's too much, all too much, and Dean tries desperately to find a loophole or something, _anything_ that can get his brother out of this. He considers killing the demon now—seriously considers it—but knows that it'll only be a matter of time before the next demon shows up and things don't go as nicely as they are at the current moment. If you can consider a demon showing up at their door and asking politely for your little brother's soul things going nicely. "Why didn't you just—just take him as soon as I got back?"

The smile the demon flashes him this time is wicked. "We were planning."

"Oh, Jesus." Dean has just enough time to make it to the bathroom before he really _is _sick, retching so violently he's surprised he doesn't wreck his throat.

When it's over he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and staggers to his feet, braces himself on the doorframe when he gets there.

"Can I—have a minute?" he asks, and damn that he has to _ask _anything of a fucking demon, but somehow he doesn't think that demanding something of the demon here for his baby brother's soul will go down well.

"Of course," the demon offers, sweeping his arms wide as if he might give Dean the whole world. "Take all the time you need." With that the demon disappears, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he—_it_—is gone Dean's on his knees in front of Sam, taking the younger man's face once again between his hands and forcing him to look Dean in the eye.

"Sammy, Sammy, why?" he pleads. Yeah, he's been angry at his brother. Yeah, he's felt a little betrayed. But Jesus Christ, he doesn't want _this_. He doesn't want Sam gone. And no matter what the younger man has done to Dean, he could never _ever _wish Hell upon him.

Sam's got his eyes closed. Dean gives him a firm shake, and they open. "Why didn't you make them bring me back? Why the hell did you make the damned deal in the first place?" And Dean knows that he's being a hypocrite but he doesn't _care_, because he doesn't have a year to try to find a way out or even say goodbye. This is here, this is now and they both know what goes on in Hell, _Dean_ knows what goes on in Hell and if that's not the worst part he doesn't know what is.

"I had to," Sam chokes out, "I had to know. The angels wouldn't help me. I had to know where you were. And if you were out somewhere having a good time without me, or if you had a family and were happy—if you were in _Heaven_—I didn't want to take that from you. I needed—I needed you to be happy, Dean." Sam grips one of Dean's sleeves and looks him in the eye. "I need you to be happy."

"Oh, Sammy…"

"And then, when I found out you were in Purgatory," Sam continued, dropping his gaze. "God, Dean, I tried everything. I hit a dog and met Amelia and looked and looked and _looked_ but nothing worked. I couldn't get you out and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Wordlessly, Dean pulls Sam down and grips him tightly. It's awkward with the difference in their elevation: Sam's forehead is pressed against the crook of Dean's neck as he bends to hug back and Dean knows it must be uncomfortable. They stay like that for a long time, though, until Sam pulls back and says, in a voice that shakes slightly, "I have to go now, Dean. I made a deal."

Dean grips Sam's shirt for another minute, unwilling to let go, but then Sam is gently uncurling his fingers and just like that his baby brother is gone.

Dean puts his head in his hands and weeps.

**One Year Later**

Dean sits on the edge of the hard bed in the grimy motel, sipping a cup of coffee that could just as well be mud for all he can taste and tapping a not-quite-rhythm out on the laptop with his fingertips. He's restless, antsy because he's been in one place for far too long and is starting to think—something he can't afford to do. Not now. Not ever. Because if he thinks, he'll think about how his little brother sold his soul for him in a stupid deal with a demon and has now been in Hell for God knows how long because no matter how hard he tries Dean can't get him the fuck out—he doesn't even know what day of the week it is, hasn't been keeping track because that requires thinking too, he'll think about all the things he said to Sam and all the things he _didn't _say and—

Dean slams the lid of the laptop down and finishes the mud-coffee off in one swallow, gets up and starts packing his stuff for the next hunt. Hunting doesn't require thinking. Not that kind of thinking, anyway.

A quiet knock on the door halts his movements, and for a minute he considers not answering until the person outside goes away, but then they're knocking again and he sighs before going to open it.

"Can I help y—" Dean freezes, his mouth agape.

"Actually," the demon says, smiling politely, "I think you can." He rests his hand lightly on Sam's shoulder.

End.


	7. teen Sam is an idiot on drugs

"We need to talk," Dean said, coming up behind Sam as he swiped the cleaning cloth over the spotless window for the fifth time.

"Okay," Sam replied. He didn't look up or stop what he was doing. "So let's talk."

"Sam, the window is clean enough," the older Winchester snapped. He immediately let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, knowing that yelling was going to get him nowhere. "Come on; let's go to the living room." Dean worked to keep his voice calm. "I really need your full attention for this."

Sam shrugged, sharp and quick, and dropped the rag before practically skipping into the apartment's living room. He sat down on the crappy sofa as Dean came in behind him, bouncing the heel of his right foot up and down in a fast, steady rhythm. Dean gritted his teeth against the urge to tell him to _keep still, dammit_. This wasn't anything new; Sam had been twitchy lately, moving all the time like he had fucking ADHD or something. Which he did _not_. One time Sam had come home from school so hyped up that their dad had been forced to make him run laps lest he drive them both John _and _Dean insane. The kid had responded with a nearly shouted "Yessir!" and left just like that, and Dean had sat on the front porch watching him run (because he was seriously suspicious that Sam was going to sneak off and do some stupid thing that teenagers did). But by the time Sam had finished, Dean had counted almost twice as many laps as John had ordered and his little brother was _still _jazzed.

That night, he'd declined when dinner time arrived, said he wasn't hungry, and that was when Dean _really _began suspecting something was wrong. Sam had just run thirteen laps around the block. He should have been _starving_. John had given the youngest a strange look but let him go, and Dean had been left to wonder what was up.

Now, two weeks later, Dean was starting to get scared. Sam rarely ate anymore—had lost a significant amount of weight—and always seemed to be doing some sort of physical activity, whether it be running or push-ups or trying to get Dean to spar with him. He looked like utter shit; the circles under his eyes were nearly black and his skin was like paper, except for his cheeks, which were always flushed as though with fever. Dean wondered if he slept. He picked fights with dad over stupid things and snapped at Dean, too. His hands shook so hard he missed most of the targets they trained with completely.

And then there was the OCD thing. He'd rearrange the books on the shelf over and over again, or clean the bathroom three times in a row. And honestly, it was freaking Dean the hell out.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about?" the younger Winchester asked, breathing rapidly as though he'd just run a marathon.

Dean crossed his arms as he stood over his little brother. "I want you to tell me what's going on." he said.

"What do you mean?" Sam blew a bit of hair out of his face.

"I want to know why you've been acting so weird lately," Dean demanded, glaring.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam protested, turning his wide, slightly glazed eyes up to meet Dean's.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean could feel his composure falling away as anger and fear bubbled through his veins. "What the hell is up with you? Huh? You're all twitchy and irritable and you haven't been eating and it's starting to scare the shit out of me!"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam snapped, crossing his own arms over his thin chest.

"The _hell_ you are!"

Sam stood. "Drop it," he said, voice low and dangerous. His already dilated pupils grew wider, black nearly overtaking hazel, and he shoved past Dean into the kitchen. Dean let him go, exhaling shakily; a minute later the door from the kitchen to outside slammed.

Then Dean was taking the stairs two at a time and bursting into their bedroom. He grabbed Sam's duffle, shaking it harshly, and soon everything that had previously been contained in it was on the floor. When he found nothing unusual in the mess from the duffle he proceeded to tear the room apart, even turning over his own mattress. Still nothing.

Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair. Maybe he had guessed wrong. Maybe Sam wasn't on anything. But then he spotted a small, wooden box on top of the ravaged bookcase.

Carefully stepping over the discarded books, Dean slid the box off of the bookcase and walked over to Sam's bed, tipping its contents onto the mattress.

There was the soft tinkle of glass against glass as everything fell out. The box hadn't held much—only a few syringes and three small packets of what looked like clear, white crystal. Dean's breath caught.

_No,_ his brain protested. _No, no, no, no, no. Not Sammy. He's smarter than that. _

Except apparently he wasn't. The evidence was all there. Everything his brother had been keeping from him. His idiot, sixteen-year-old brother who was doing hard drugs. _God_.

Dean sat heavily on the bed and swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off of the drugs. He _had _been in high school once; he knew crystal meth when he saw it. He just couldn't believe that Sam had done something so _stupid_. Dad was going to kill him.

_Serves the dumbass right,_ he thought, suddenly furious.


	8. amusing spoof thing(mostly Dean centric)

When the demon he and Sam are currently trying to get rid of decides that Dean's head should be better acquainted with the brick wall, the world shudders around the edges for a moment before going dark. He's not actually completely sure that he's unconscious, though, because he can still hear little noises all around and he still has this sense of awareness about him, like maybe he just decided to close his eyes for a little bit by choice. Also, his head feels like it just threw one hell of a party without his permission.

Someone kneels beside him and shakes his shoulder gently, and he knows that it's Sam when the person murmurs, "Dean, wake up."

Dean tries to open his eyes, he really does, but they don't seem too keen on obeying him right now and all he manages to do is flutter his eyelids a little bit, groaning softly.

And then Sam slaps him.

The slap is sharp and quick and immediately followed by the younger Winchester shouting, "Dean! Wake up!" directly into his ear. Dean flinches at the harsh treatment, his eyes snapping open. His arms come up to cradle his now viciously throbbing head as he moans, "What the hell, Sam?"

Sam ignores him in favour of turning his head to look behind his shoulder and says, "Cassy, he's awake."

This comment makes Dean pause in trying to pull himself into a sitting position for two reasons: one, because unless Sam made a new friend in the two minutes Dean had his eyes closed he must be talking to Cas, and since when did Cas get here? and two, did Sam just call Cas _Cassy_?

The older Winchester only manages to get himself situated with his back against the wall before he has to stop again, this time to stare at his guardian angel because seriously, _what the fuck_?

"Um, Cas," Dean begins. He laughs a little and shakes his head slightly, dropping his gaze to the floor before bringing it back up to the other man. "It might be the concussion, but you're acting a little strange, even for you. What's with the, um... fancy getup?"

Cas looks down at the clothes he's wearing, seemingly confused. "Do you find something amiss with my outfit, Master Winchester?" he asks. "It seems to be the same as it is every other day..."

This is when Dean knows that he's dreaming. Because there's a halo floating above his angel's head—his angel who just so happens to be wearing a toga (or a bedsheet, Dean's not really sure at this point) and also has these big, fluffy, white wings that make Dean wonder how he's still upright—and never, not in a million bazillion years, would Cas ever call him 'Master Winchester'.

So either he's dreaming or that demon had some seriously juiced-up mojo and sent him to some weird, fucked-up alternate universe.

Sam hands Dean a water bottle which he takes gratefully before surveying the rest of the room. Everything looks exactly the same as it had before he experienced first-hand Newton's third law of motion. Same high ceilings, same grimy windows, same dusty, winding staircase. The whole thing is actually kind of impressive; Dean guesses that it had been some sort of opera house before it became demon base. He hadn't known that America had opera houses.

Sam looks the same too, except that he's tanner, which makes... no sense at all. Soon, however, Dean's gaze forgoes his younger brother to once again settle on Cas. He looks like some shitty cartoon character, and it's just so ridiculous with the angel's ever-serious expression that Dean only just manages to not burst out laughing. He doesn't think his head would appreciate the humour.

He's just taking a drink of the water bottle when Sam sighs. Dean can practically _hear _his eyes rolling.

"Would you stop staring at Cassy like that?" the younger Winchester says exasperatedly. "We're in the middle of a case and you screwed this morning. For god's sake, keep it in your pants, Dean."

Dean hadn't known that water hurt so much when it was coming out of your nose, but it stings like a _bitch_. He coughs so hard that he's sure his head is going to explode, and the only things he can think of are the words _you _and _screwed _and _this morning_.

"We did _what_?" he gasps after he's managed to draw in a full breath. There's no way, there's _no fucking way _that he and Cas—no way, no way.

Sam just rolls his eyes again and stands from where he had been kneeling beside his brother. "Very funny, Dean. You of all people would know just how intense Destiel has gotten over the past few weeks." He pretends to stick his fingers down his throat and gag before turning back down the aisle, muttering something about stupid relationships and still having a demon to kill. Cas follows, leaving Dean to scramble after them, head still reeling.

"_Destiel_?" Dean asks. (He most definitely doesn't squeak, no matter how much his voice might have cracked.) "What the hell is a _Destiel_?"

"Cut the crap, Dean," Sam huffs, swinging the axe (Where did he get an axe? How did Dean not see this before?) in his hand around haphazardly and almost decapitating Castiel, who ducks just in time. Sam doesn't notice, or if he does he doesn't show it. "Now's not the time for you to be acting the fool. The demon could be anywhere."

At that precise moment, a black-eyed demon leaps out of seemingly nowhere to land on Sam's back, grabbing his hair and shrieking like a wild thing. Sam jerks roughly, throwing the demon off into the rows of seats, gives a mighty war cry and coming at the demon with the axe.


	9. Sam's gone drinking and John's dead

Sam eased himself into Bobby's house as quietly as he could, grimacing when the old door creaked on its hinges and cursing quietly as he tripped over his own feet and stumbled into the table. He shushed himself before attempting to find his way to the staircase through the dark room.

"Just where the hell have you been, boy?" Sam jumped about a foot in the air and then managed to fall flat on his ass and bring two kitchen chairs down with him. He blinked in the sudden, blinding light.

Bobby's angry faced loomed over him. Sam gulped.

"Well?" Bobby prompted after a moment of silence. "You been drinkin'?"

"Little bit," Sam admitted from his place on the floor. He was relieved that the older hunter hadn't noticed his wince as he had gone down.

"Yeah? You get into a fight?"

Sam blinked. Maybe Bobby had noticed after all. "Little bit."

"Dammit, Sam," Bobby growled. He hauled Sam up by the collar of his shirt. "This is the third time. How do you think Dean would feel if he knew that you were gettin' yourself beat like this?"

"Don't tell him, Bobby," Sam pleaded, suddenly feeling a lot more sober. "He's got enough to worry about."

Bobby took his cap off and rubbed his head, giving a frustrated sigh. 'Sam, Dean's your brother. It's his _job _to worry about you. It's what he does."

"Please don't tell him, Bobby," Sam begged. "Please."

* * *

><p>The blood-curdling cry that ripped itself from Sam's throat jerked him awake, and he quickly forced his mouth closed to cut the sound short. He stood on shaky legs and made his way to the bathroom, splashing some water on his face before opening the cabinet above the sink and taking out the bottle of prescription-strength sleeping pills. He knew it was a bad idea to take the sleeping pills with the pain killers. But they were the only things that kept him quiet during the nightmares, and he'd be damned if he was going to let his fucked up head bother anyone else. He shook two tablets out of the bottle, placing them on his tongue and swallowing them dry.<p>

The next time Sam woke up, he was halfway to the bathroom the second his eyes opened. There he proceeded to empty his stomach of the sleeping pills, the pain meds, and everything he'd eaten that day. He flushed the toilet when it was over and then just sat there, breathing hard.

The feeling of something warm and wet trickling down his lip had him wiping his nose with the back of his hand. The crimson smear that his arm came away with only confirmed his suspicions.

"Fuck," he breathed. Dean would've been furious with him for being so stupid.


	10. Sam's hands are shaking John's an ass

**CHAPTER SIX IS FINISHED! YAY! Now titled: When I Look into the Mirror (My Reflection Tells me Lies). Happy reading!**

* * *

><p>Sam scowled at his trembling hands, clenching them hard in an attempt to stop the shaking.<p>

He wished he knew what the hell was wrong with him, because this had never been an issue before, and he had enough trouble shooting a target as it was. He didn't need any more complications. The gun felt heavy in his unsteady fingers, and he hated it.

Trying to tell John that Sam shouldn't shoot a gun was like trying to tell Dean that he shouldn't have sex. It was damn near impossible. But Jesus Christ, if Sam couldn't hold the gun steady, he _shouldn't _be trying to shoot. He'd get someone killed. Time and time again over the past week he'd tried to explain this to his father, and time and time again John's answer was the same. _You're a big boy, Sam. Deal with it. We need you on back up._

Except he wouldn't be very good back up if he shot Dad or Dean instead of whatever it was they were hunting, now would he?

Sam's gaze landed on the gun next to him and his scowl deepened. Stupid gun. Stupid silver bullets. Stupid werewolf and its need to be shot with stupid silver bullets from the stupid gun.

"What're you brooding about back there, Sammy?" Dean teased from the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Shut up," Sam replied automatically, turning his scowl on his big brother. Dean grinned back at him.

"Come on, Sasquatch, get psyched!" Dean's grin widened. "We're hunting werewolf tonight!"

Sam scowled out the window. Yes, tonight they were hunting a werewolf, and Sam had been put in charge of shooting said werewolf by their foolish father who didn't understand that you can't force someone with shaking hands to try to shoot something. It was just not a good idea. At all.

"All right, boys, we're here," John stated, turning off the engine and interrupting Sam's scowling session. "Dean, you ready?"

"Yessir," Dean enthused, beaming with excitement.

"Good." John turned to his younger son. "Sam?"

"Yes sir," Sam mumbled.

"Good," John said. "Make sure you keep it that way."

Sam sighed and barely contained an eye-roll.

The traipsed through the forest a ways before John ordered Dean and Sam to go one way while he went the other. The gun in Sam's hand trembled in time with the spasming muscles.

"Shh," Dean hissed suddenly, stopping Sam with a hand on his chest. "Hear that?"

How could Sam not? The howling sounded like it was coming from right next to them. A branch snapped somewhere in the distance.

_Please don't let me shoot Dean,_ Sam prayed silently as he cocked the gun. _Please, God, don't let me shoot Dean._

"Sam, in front of you!" Dean's yell had Sam's head snapping up.


	11. Sam's having mental issues

Sam turned from the Impala window and blinked at Dean in surprise, because the older Winchester had never really expressed an interest in blueberries before, and it was odd that he would just randomly want them in the middle of a hunt. Maybe Dean had a sudden craving for them, kind of like he sometimes had with whiskey or red-headed girls. Or maybe he had always liked blueberries and Sam had just never noticed. Either way, he had just asked Sam if it was all right if they stopped for some, which was confusing in itself seeing as it wasn't like Sam's disapproval had ever stopped Dean when he wanted something before now.

"Uh, sure, if you want some," Sam replied. Because really, what was he supposed to do? Deny his brother blueberries just because it was weird that Dean had asked? Not like Dean wouldn't get them anyway.

The older hunter glanced at Sam, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"You asked if we could stop for blueberries," Sam said. "We can if you want to."

This time Dean held Sam's gaze for a minute before looking back at the road, his eyes bemused and slightly concerned. "The hell are you talking about? I didn't say anything."

"Nothing?" Sam questioned.

"Not a word," Dean said.

The younger man looked out of the windshield at the darkening sky and passing road for a minute. "Huh."

"Well?" Dean prompted after a bit, looking across at his little brother.

"Well what?"

"You gonna tell me what that was?"

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes, shrugging instead. "It wasn't anything, Dean. I just thought you said something."

"About wanting blueberries."

"Yeah."

Dean nodded and switched lanes on the nearly deserted road, checking his rear-view mirror before once again glancing at Sam. "Because I just love blueberries so much."

Sam shrugged again, wishing that Dean would let it go. It seriously wasn't that big of a deal. "So what's the verdict with the colour-me-happy ghost this time?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Dean studied him for a few more second before sighing and taking the bait. "Another victim, this time a student at a high school in Philly. Puncture wounds through both lungs, bled out from the wrists, and decorated like Jackson Pollock's Number Nineteen."

"Great," Sam muttered. The mention of the famous painting had pulled up a memory for him. A really sudden, random one that Sam doubted was even real. He was sitting on Dean's bed with a big bag of m&ms, counting the green ones and hiding them in Dean's pillowcase.

Sam frowned and shook his head. He actually knew for a fact that the memory wasn't real because he had never really liked m&ms, and even if he had Dad wouldn't have bought a big bag like that for him because they were a waste of money and not essential. He wondered where the hell his brain had come up with that. He also wondered where it had some up with the blueberry thing.

"—am? Sammy? Hey, kiddo, you with me?"

"Huh?" Sam blinked and turned his head to find Dean's gaze flickering alternatively between him and the road, his forehead creased with concern.

"Dude, you spaced out for like, five minutes," Dean stated, frowning and tightening his grip minutely on the wheel.

"Oh." Had it really been that long? Seemed like a couple of seconds. "Out of curiosity, do you know if I ever hid green m&ms in your pillow?"

"Alright, that's it," Dean muttered. He pulled the car over to the side of the road before turning his full attention to his younger brother. "What's wrong with you, man? Huh? First blueberries, and now green m&ms. You'd better not be on anything, Sam, or I swear to God—"

"I'm not 'on' anything, Dean," Sam snapped indignantly, offended that his brother would think that of him. "I have no idea what's wrong. My brain's been coming up with some really weird shit lately. Earlier today I caught myself wondering how many watermelons it would take to feed a herd of buffalo." He rubbed at his eyes. "I don't even think buffalo eat watermelon."

Sam felt Dean's fingers at his forehead, and then his hands were being pulled away from his eyes and Dean was grasping his chin to study them carefully.

"You need to get some sleep, Sam," Dean said, shaking his head and restarting the car.

"Yeah," Sam replied, rubbing his eyes again.

The younger Winchester cast his gaze back out the window to the nearly black night sky. Grey clouds, lighter than their background, floated across the horizon and the moon and the stars and Sam wondered what would happen if he tried to karate-chop the clouds in half, if the clouds would disintegrate or maybe _he _would disintegrate because the clouds looked like smoke and smoke came from things that exploded and —

"Ah, Jesus Christ!" Sam yelped as a sudden high-pitched ringing sound blasted in his left ear and tried to burst his eardrum, involuntarily smacking his head against the window before pressing a hand tightly against the offending ear.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean shouted in alarm. The car swerved as the steering wheel jerked under his hands, and he threw Sam a look of trepidation.

"Ah—sorry, just—_fuck_—" Sam shook his head, trying to get the ringing to stop. It wasn't as loud as it had been at first, thank God, but it was still there and he still couldn't really hear and he was kind of afraid that his eardrum actually _had _bursted, so he pulled his hand away to see if there was any blood, but there wasn't any, so. "Sorry."

"Go to sleep," Dean snapped.


	12. John's dead and Sam's concussed

Sam stared down into his cup of orange juice, his expression vacant as he watched the ripples made by the slight tremor of the hand that held the drink. A breakfast of now-cold scrambled eggs and soggy bacon sat untouched in front of him.

It wasn't anything new. This… _resignation _was a normal occurrence now. And Bobby was starting to get worried.

He could understand that Sam was grieving—the kid had just lost his daddy, after all. Dean was acting the same way, but resignation was something Bobby expected from the older brother. Not from Sam, though. From Sam Bobby expected a few tears and some failed attempts at getting Dean to talk to him. It just wasn't like the boy to retreat into himself like he had.

Of course, the resignation could have been a good thing, because Dean had been avoiding his little brother lately. And whereas that would usually break the poor kid's heart, he didn't seem to notice now. Still, at least Dean ate and didn't look at his beverages like he didn't know what they were or what he was supposed to do with them. Sam hadn't been talking much lately either, and that was a cause for alarm in itself.

"Hey, kiddo," Bobby prompted, moving to sit in the chair next to the younger hunter's.

"Huh?" Sam replied—this being about how lucid his responses were as of late. He didn't look up.

"Aren't you hungry?

A shrug.

Typical.

Sighing, Bobby removed the plate from the table, throwing the food away and putting the dish in the sink and then returning to stand at Sam's shoulder.

"You gonna drink that?"

Sam's grip on the glass tightened minutely before he surrendered it, giving it a slight push in Bobby's direction. "Uh-uh."

Bobby frowned sadly and gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

* * *

><p>Sam sat in the kitchen long after everyone left, listening to the slow and steady <em>drip <em>of the leaky tap and reminding himself for the third time that morning why Dean wasn't talking to him and why Dad wasn't there.

Dad.

_Drip._

Dad was dead.

_Drip._

There was a crash. A car crash.

_Drip_.

Dean was fairly okay. Sam's head still hurt.

_Drip_.

Dad was dead.

_Drip_.

_Drip._

_ Drip._

The rhythm of the water was suddenly drowned out by a low ringing in Sam's ears. His vision blurred, tilting alarmingly and making his empty stomach clench.

Sam shook his head, waiting for the nausea and ringing to pass. Because it always did. The annoying thing was that it left him wondering what the hell he had just been trying to remember. Sighing, he started the process all over again.

Dad was dead.

_Drip_.


	13. Sam's mysteriously blue and shaking

Sam stepped under the too-hot spray from the showerhead with a sigh, feeling the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders uncoil in the warm water. He tipped his head back and let it run over his dirty face.

This hunt had been simple to start, but it didn't stay that way, of course. Turns out the poltergeist had some friends who decided to come make things interesting. There were four, in the end, and one had succeeded in slicing Dean's wrist up so that when the time came that Sam _really _needed him, he was half-delirious from blood-loss. The younger Winchester barely got both himself and his brother out of there alive. And he only managed to salt and burn two out of four ghosts.

Sighing once again, Sam braced one hand against the wall of the grimy motel shower and winced, studying the bruises blossoming angrily on his upper torso in the dim light from the single overhead bulb. One poltergeist had insisted on beating him round the chest with a heavy metal candlestick holder. He had fared better than Dean—who was currently zonked out on the couch after Sam's careful stitching job—but that didn't make his own injuries hurt any less. He was just glad that they were both mostly okay.

Something on his right leg suddenly caught his attention. Frowning, Sam inspected the leg more closely to find that his thigh was streaked with pale blue, the colour seemingly underneath the surface of the skin. He craned his neck and saw that the back of his leg looked worse, the blue darker and covering more space so that almost the whole top half of his leg was discoloured.

"What the hell?" he muttered, examining his other leg. It looked completely normal.

Confused, Sam applied pressure to his thigh to see if it was a bruise, though he couldn't recall being hit there. The pressure didn't hurt, not even when he increased it. He tried to scrub the colour off with soap and water.

That was when he noticed that his hands were shaking. Hard. Brow furrowed, Sam attempted to remember if they were shaking like that when he had stitched Dean up. He couldn't. But if they had been, they were going to have some serious problems.

Mysterious blue leg all but forgotten, Sam turned off the rapidly cooling water and stepping out into the bathroom, wrapping a towel securely around his waist before opening the bathroom door. Dean was still out, mouth slightly open and snoring softly. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, carefully unwrapping the bandages on his brother's wrist before frowning. The sutures were small and neat and straight. Just like Dad had taught him. Just like always.

Sam shook his head. He got dressed and laid down on his own hard bed, wondering what was going on. He briefly considered the possibility of a curse, but dismissed the thought. This was a poltergeist—a malevolent spirit who liked to throw things. Not a witch.

_Well, whatever it is, _Sam thought as he rolled over, _it's gonna have to wait._

* * *

><p>Dean groaned.<p>

His head hurt, his wrist hurt like a bitch, his mouth was dry, and he was uncomfortable, albeit warm.

What the hell?

And then he remembered. The hunt, the stupid poltergeists, the knife, Sam…

_Oh, God, Sam._

Dean's eyes snapped open to reveal the motel room they'd been staying in, but no little brother.

"Sammy?" Dean called, barely keeping the panic out of his voice. The kid had been alone against four poltergeists. That could have ended on way too many levels of _bad_. "Sam?"

"Dude, chill, I'm right here," came the tired reply. Dean turned his head to see his younger brother sitting on the bed next to him, looking worn but relatively healthy and very much alive.

_Thank God_.

Dean sat up and rubbed his head, noticing the neat white bandage on his wrist. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam responded. He nodded to Dean's bandaged forearm. "You?"

"I've been better," the older man admitted, because he wrist _really _fucking hurt. Sam tossed a bottle of water and a container of pain reliever in Dean's direction.

Dean gave Sam a quick once-over as he took the medication. Sometimes Sam's definition of 'fine' and his definition of 'fine' were two very different things.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean pressed as he re-capped the water bottle. "Your hands are shaking."

Sam frowned as if this was news to him, looking down at his trembling hands and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Still?" under his breath.

"What do you mean, '_still'_? How long have they been shaking? Did you hit your head?" The older Winchester wracked his brain in an attempt to pinpoint the injury that would have caused this.

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam assured, clenching his fists.

"_Sam_."

"Seriously," Sam said, looking his brother in the eye. "I'm fine."

"How long, Sam?"

Sam sighed. "I dunno. I noticed last night in the shower, and no, I don't think I hit my head."

"Uh huh." Sam shifted under Dean's scrutiny. "Any other injuries I should know about?"

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes. "My ribs were banged up a little."

"Right." Dean stood and walked over to his brother's bed, arms crossed and expression hard. "Shirt off."

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam said exasperatedly. "I can take care of a few bruises!"

"Shirt. Off. Now."

"Jesus," Sam muttered as he pulled his shirt over his head, wincing slightly.


	14. Sam has a thing for perscription meds

They had started out as painkillers.

Sam had just been thrown rather viciously into a tree—_There are a lot of those in the forest, _Sam remembered thinking as his brother half-carried, half-dragged him out of the woods—and there was a sharp pain just behind his left eye that muddled his thoughts and sent white dots skittering across his vision when he moved.

Bobby had given them some bottles of white pills ("Seriously, Bobby, who the hell keeps _eight _bottles of prescription codeine stored in their bathroom?") and sent them on their way.

Sam had taken a lot of the medicine on the drive to the motel. A whole bottle (it was a really long drive). And the next day, too, he took almost half of another one. His head just hurt so bad. The day after that the pain was all but gone, but he took a few pills anyway because he felt oddly jittery without them.

From that point forward, Sam had taken the pills daily. It was like clockwork; once in the morning, once at noon, and once before he went to sleep, in increasing amounts because his body grew immune quickly.

Then one time he forgot. They had been in a hurry—they were trying to find that stupid ghost before it strangled anyone else—and Sam forgot to take the pills. He was so jumpy during the investigation that he nearly shot Dean.

That night Dean found Sam in the bathroom worshipping at the porcelain alter and moaning because he needed that codeine. He _needed _it.

That was when Sam knew he had a problem, and that it had to be fixed.

* * *

><p>The first night wasn't that bad. He sat on the dirty bathroom floor and locked his teeth against the violent tremors that wracked his body. By the time he tried to open his mouth two hours later, it felt as though someone had cemented his jaw shut.<p>

When it was over he climbed into bed and attempted in vain to get some sleep. Every time he got anywhere close to unconsciousness, an aftershock-shudder jarred him awake again.

Sam was surprised by the late morning sunlight that streamed through the grimy motel window the next time he opened his eyes.

"Welcome back to the Land of the Living." Dean's voice caught Sam's attention. His brother was standing at the foot of his bed, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern. "You look wrecked, man. What's you do, try to find out how much alcohol your could get into that freakishly huge lightweight body of yours?"

"Something like that," Sam muttered, stretching and making his way toward the bathroom.

He had just gotten into the shower when the shaking started again. Deciding that he really didn't want to get up close and personal with the shower floor, he braced himself against the wall and tried not to knock anything over. Fifteen minutes later, as Dean yelled at him to hurry the hell up and the tremors were finally slowing, Sam realised that wasn't going to manage to take an actual shower. Of course.

Dean looked at him strangely as he exited the bathroom but said nothing.


End file.
